


Steebie's One Shots!

by stranger_steeb



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Billy Hargrove Redemption, But Mostly Angst And Fluff Because That's My Shit, F/F, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Gen, M/M, Multi, Neil Hargrove is His Own Warning, One Shot Collection, Other, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Steve Harrington/Nancy Wheeler, Shameless Smut, She's A Little Bit Valid, Steve Harrington's Mother Is Here And She Is Queer Too, Tags Are Hard
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-25
Updated: 2020-09-13
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:13:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24366370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stranger_steeb/pseuds/stranger_steeb
Summary: A collection of one shots and drabbles focusing on our favorite Stranger Things characters, but mostly my boy Steve Harrington.
Relationships: Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington, Joyce Byers/Jim "Chief" Hopper, Other Relationship Tags to Be Added, Steve Harrington & The Party
Comments: 1
Kudos: 32





	1. (I Just) Died in Your Arms

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to the shitshow, folks! It's been a minute since I've posted a collection like this so I hope you enjoy this! Feel free to hit me up on my Tumblr [stranger-steeb!](https://stranger-steeb.tumblr.com/) to make requests or just to enjoy my brand of chaos!

Another summer, another fight. It scared them to find demogorgons roaming the forests of Hawkins again, the immediate concern being that another gate was open somewhere, but instead of a gate they found a nest; they'd been breeding in this dimension. There are unknowns here, of course. How long were they nesting? How many escaped the fight? How many escaped Hawkins before they even knew the nest was there?

But unknowns can wait. The battle is over, things are okay for now. Steve's destination isn't the Byers' home, not this time, but he's got a car full of chatty teenagers to drop off so he drives on autopilot. The kids won't make anything of his silence until much later, they hardly notice it now. But Steve can't talk, can hardly focus on anything but the eternal trip to the familiar home filled with warmth and relief and family, his family. The kids clamber out and Dustin hesitates, asks Steve if he's coming in.

He's not, he can't, but he smiles his most reassuring grin, runs a fond hand over the teen's curls, and promises to be inside in a minute. Dustin smiles back and nods before scampering inside. Steve watches with a sad sort of relief; his kids are safe, his loved ones are alive. Most of them are, anyway. They survive this time, and so he calls it a success.

Steve looks down at his bloodied jacket and groans softly. _He's_ not making it this time, and he's okay with it.

The Beemer moves out of the driveway silently and he finds the strength to reach the quarry before the car turns off. He should go home, but his mother won't appreciate it if he drips blood on her carpets. The quarry is his safe space, these trees know his secrets well. This is where he used to come with Billy long ago, when those ocean eyes and bright smile were still around. This is where their friendship blossomed over beer cans and rolled joints, where Billy trusted him with the truth about Neil and where Steve trusted him with his whole heart. They made love here, hidden away in their cars, they danced to old cassettes and talked about running away to California and making a life for themselves. This is where Steve came after Starcourt, face bruised and ribs broken and heart shattered. He grieved here, healed here, learned to move on here. It's almost fitting that he choose to die here, too. _Bittersweet_ , he thinks.

He turns the car off and thinks about Dustin, about his kids. They'll be finishing high school soon. Dustin's already got an acceptance letter from some big tech school out in California, and Will's gotten a hefty scholarship to a New York arts school. Max is going to law school, she told him not very long ago, and he knows she's going to make one hell of a lawyer. Lucas and Mike are going to North Carolina, and El isn't quite ready to leave the nest yet, but when she does, when Hop lets her go, Steve knows she'll do something amazing. He wishes desperately he could be there to see it, but he's fading fast; the flow of blood from the gruesome series of bites along his torso is slow, but it's adding up. He hopes they don't grieve too hard, that they don't miss him too badly. Especially Dustin.

Dustin, his favorite child. His best friend. Claudia's told him several times even she saw him as an extension of their family, the older brother and mentor her Dusty always needed. The kid's loud, obnoxious at times, but Steve loves him fiercely and he hopes, _really hopes_ that the kid knows that. He's got a letter in his desk for Henderson, for each of his kids, for everyone in his life, wrote them in an emotional haze after Starcourt nearly four years ago when he almost died in a Russian base. There's even a letter for Billy, a farewell to the love of his life. Steve hopes the kids get those letters so that they can at least have that closure, that form of _goodbye_. That's what those letters are, really. Three nights after the mall he wrote them just in case he died without the chance to say goodbye. Those letters hold everything he's ever wanted to say but never felt able to.

When they're found, Steve wonders what his parents will think. He wonders if his mother will cry, if his father will feel remorse for his absence. It hurts that he's dying without the chance to heal their broken relationship, and in his dark car he finds himself aching for his mother's hug, his father's hand stroking his hair. He wants to tell them that he loves them, in spite of everything. He wants to say _sorry_ , he's sorry he wasn't the child they wanted him to be. But most of all, he just wants their company.

He _knows_ Joyce will cry, thinks Hopper might too. Nancy and Robin are going to cry, there's no doubt in his mind. Steve hopes they don't feel guilt over this, that they don't blame themselves. Because it's not their fault, no matter what they may tell themselves. Robin's going to take this hard, he's abandoning his partner in crime. He hopes she finds another, that she gets to run off to Nashville and get her music gig going. He hopes she finds a girl who loves her goofy ways as much as he does. He hopes Nancy chases her dreams, that she catches them, that she and Jonathan live a happy life together. He hopes everyone lives a happy life after this. He hopes they move on.

"It's gonna take a while, Pretty Boy." Steve opens his eyes _~~(when did he close them?)~~_ and slowly rolls his head to the side, stares at Billy in the passenger seat. Billy looks youthful and happy, his skin tanned and freckled and free of the Mind Flayer's scars. He's holding Steve's goodbye letter. Steve blinks once, twice, smiles faintly.

"I've missed you, dumbass," he grumbles, and Billy laughs easily. The sound is floaty and musical.

"Ditto, Stevie." He smiles fondly, and for a second Steve feels like they're teenagers again, sharing their affection in the safe confines of the quarry. Steve can forget the grave reality of the situation. He smiles back, reaches out to poke Billy's warm cheek, and slid his gaze lazily back out towards the lake.

"Is it scary?"

"Not really." Billy shakes his head. "Not when you know what's coming." Steve nods in acknowledgement.

"Can I do anything to stop it?" he asks. The blonde shakes his head again, his smile soft and sad.

"Nah. Sorry, Babydoll, but your time's running out." Steve takes a shuddering breath, nods again. Billy's hand seeks his out, squeezes gently. "Hey, look at me." He waits until Steve obliges, unfocused eyes settling on him. "You did good, Steve. You did real good."

"I don't want to leave them," he whispers, and he's starting to tear up now, the gravity of the situation setting in. "Who's gonna look after them, Bill? I can't - I can't just _leave_ them." Billy leans in as Steve's voice wobbles, his calloused hand wiping the brunette's tears away while he hushes him softly.

"They're going to be okay," he soothes. "Trust me. You've done everything you can, you've done your job. You've been the best damn babysitter this world's ever seen." Billy's arms wrap around him comfortingly. "You've taken such good care of them, now it's time for you to rest." Steve sniffles as he leans into his boyfriend's arms, closing his eyes again.

"You think so?" he manages to ask.

"I _know_ so." A hand runs gently over Steve's wild hair. "I worried about that too, was real worried about you and Max. But look at you." Billy shifts, tilts Steve's head and gets the dying man to look at him again. "You went off to police school or whatever they call it, you became a cop." And Steve _had_ , he'd been a cop for two years. It was the right choice in his mind, even if his parents weren't keen on the idea. Hopper was proud of him, though, and everyone else supported him the whole way through. Judging from the look in Billy's eyes, the blonde is proud of him too. "You've helped those little shitbirds through high school, you've given Buckley a _real_ friend, you've been there for Wheeler and her boy toy which is _really_ impressive, sweetheart, because they drive me nuts." Steve snorts softly, a faint smile on his face, and Billy chuckles before pressing on. "You brought a little sunshine to everyone's life, Steve, and that's amazing. You've left your mark on them all forever. Those kids? They're never going to forget you. None of them will. And it won't be easy for them, losing you, but you moved on after me, didn't you? They're going to keep going. But I promise, they won't forget Steve Harrington." Billy's voice is so confident and soft, Steve can't help but believe him. He worries for his little family still, but he believes the other man. _They're going to be okay_ , somehow. He doesn't have to worry anymore.

So instead, he presses closer to Billy, ignores the dull pain in his body, and _smiles_.

"Now what?" he asks. Billy hums low in his throat as he cards thick fingers through Steve's hair.

"Now, we move to California," he chuckles. "Right by the beach, baby. We'll watch the sum set over the ocean every night, adopt a couple of dogs or some shit. It'll be _good_." Steve hums softly.

"Sounds good," he agrees. He's silent for a little while after that. Steve's body feels _numb_ , but that doesn't startle him. "Hey, Bill?"

"Yes, Bambi?"

"I thought you were supposed to feel cold when you die." Steve blinks hazy and slow, a soft smile on his face. "But I just feel really _warm_." Billy squeezes him gently.

"Warm is good, Pretty Boy," he murmurs. "It's over, Steve, close your eyes. You can rest now." The brunette nods, _almost_ closes his eyes, but stops.

"You'll stay?" he asks.

"I'll stay," Billy promises. "Sleep, Sunshine. I'll be here when you wake up." Satisfied by that answer and too tired to keep his heavy eyelids open, Steve closes his eyes, smiles softly, and falls asleep.

* * *

It's Hopper who finds him just past dawn, after spending much of the night searching for the young cop. He has to sit down, can't _move_ for a few minutes after the discovery. Dustin _screams_ when they get to the hospital, crumples on the floor and begs Hopper to bring his best friend back. Max outright _faints_ at the news and spends the day clinging to El, who can't stop crying longer than five minutes. Robin begs them to tell her it's a joke and rages for a few minutes before dissolving into tears herself. Steve's parents get the call in their Tokyo hotel room just before going out for the night; his mother trembles so hard she can't even _try_ to stand. If his father feels anything at the news, he's good at hiding it. They come home to arrange the funeral and are faced with several teenagers waiting for them, Dustin yells at them until Hopper steps in. His mother looks at his lifeless face and whispers an apology he can't hear.

Steve Harrington is laid to rest next to his old high school rival, and an old nail-studded bat is left at the headstone. Nancy gives a tear-jerking eulogy at his funeral, and Dustin barely gets through a smaller speech about his _big brother_. Max writes a speech, but ultimately is only able to tell the small crowd that Steve was _the brightest ray of sun in her darkest time._ His parents allegedly were _"too emotional"_ to speak about their son, and no one questions it. _Joyce_ speaks, though, about this heartbreakingly sweet boy she came to love as her own, and Hopper says he would have been _proud_ to have the kid as his son.

His letters are found and are handed out that night, and Max leaves his letter for Billy by the other's headstone unread. They all cry through the words scrawled out in that familiar handwriting, his assurances of love and _pride_ for them all, and promises that they would get through this. Sitting at the quarry that same night, sharing laughter and tears and _memories_ of the man, they decide that maybe, even if they can't see it now, Steve's _right_. They'll try and get through this. It's hard navigating a storm when the sun's been lost, but they're going to _try_.


	2. Out of Touch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I haven't written smut in a hot minute, please don't yell at me.

Steve can't move; more importantly, he can't _see_.

But he _can_ hear, and somehow that makes it _worse_. Anticipation grows heavy in the pit of his belly, an invisible weight pressed on his chest.

He can't _breathe_.

Billy had been walking around the room, humming and soothing him as his boot-clad feet stomped around the room. The grounding noise had stopped minutes ago, but those few minutes feel like an eternity. He doesn't know where Billy is, doesn't know what's coming, and he feel like he's going to implode from the anxious energy beginning to build.

This was Billy's idea entirely, though Steve wasn't against it. Because both men are horribly touch-starved, but they show it in different ways. Steve sees it often in his boyfriend - the way he shies away or flinches from someone's touch, even his own if Steve comes at him too fast. If it was someone Billy trusts, he'll relax, warm up to the gesture, but if he doesn't trust them, he backs up, keep his distance and puts out a warning; he doesn't _like_ being touched first, not unless he asks. He likes to instigate, likes to ensure his safety by being the first to touch.

Because the pair moved to Malibu nearly a year ago, but abuse leaves ugly scars and old habits die hard.

Steve is different. Steve has been craving touch for years, aching for his father's hand ruffling his hair, his mother's hug, and he never got any of it. He wants to cuddle and hold hands and be affectionate, and Billy is the first to let him do so freely, but now that he can it's like his body doesn't know how to process it. With firm touches it hardly ever shows, but if someone brushes against his arm, or if Billy goes to stroke his soft skin, Steve will shiver away for a moment, only to press back into the touch harder - like it's too much despite being so soft.

Billy grew increasingly fascinated by this odd quirk over the last few months, and that finally culminated today, when Billy sidled up behind Steve as he handled the dishes after dinner. Steve had shivered violently at the sensation of lips ghosting over pale skin, goosebumps quick to form in Billy's wake.

_Trust me?_ he'd asked.

_Yes_ , Steve had breathed.

It feels like the conversation had been eons ago. The bindings are nothing new, Steve usually enjoys being tied down. The blindfold, however, is _very_ new. The satin is smooth over his eyes, and he blinks against the darkness. His long lashes flutter against the blindfold.

Next to him, he becomes aware of a weight settling on the bed. he can't keep from stiffening as he hears the soft thunk of shoes hitting the ground. His breath hitches.

Nothing happens.

Billy is playing a game, one Steve doesn't quite understand yet, and it's threatening to drive him wild. He doesn't understand why Billy's taking his time, why he's so quiet, so he tries breaking the silence.

"What are you doing?" he whispers. Billy's only reply is a gentle shush. Steve whines, tugs against the padded handcuffs -

And shivers back into stillness as four fingers drift along his bare ribs.

And then it _clicks_.

Billy's fingers stay away for a few, eternal minutes before ghosting over his smooth chest, earning him a hard tremble and choked-off gasp.

He doesn't know if there's a strategy, or if the other boy is just testing the waters, but Billy refuses to set an actual pattern. The time between touches varies, refusing Steve the chance to estimate when it's coming, and they land all over his body with varying pressure - a light stroke along his jaw, a firm pet on the abdomen, a hard tweak of a nipple. Steve doesn't know when the tremble started, but he vaguely notices now that it didn't _stop_. He feels odd, vulnerable, _hazy_ , only snapping into the present moment when Billy's calloused hand make contact with him. He has no clue how long they lay there, how much time passes as the game continues.

One light fingertip begins tracing out the constellations formed by the dark moles and pale freckles on his hip and that wrenches a sob from his red, swollen lips.

Billy's voice sounds far away, a whisper breathed out shaky and raw. "Talk to me, pretty boy."

And Steve can be a real _chatterbox_ when he feels like it.

" _Please_ ," he gasps, high and shaky. "Oh god, Billy, please, I can't take it anymore! I'll be so good for you, so good, I promise, just - _shit_ \- baby, please, please -" He breaks off into a needy keen as two fingers tease over his cock, his body going rigid before a fresh round of shudders set in. Billy's deep hum rumbles in his bones.

"You're being so good already, sweetheart," he purrs. "Such a _sweet_ little thing, so pretty and all spread out just for me." He doesn't pull away, but his touch remains light as ever, tracing over a few light veins in Steve's cock. The brunette's body arches and writhes in a wordless plea for more - a plea Billy ignores for now.

He can feel the soft curls of his boyfriend's hair tickle his cheek as he leans in, cooing and whispering sweetly in his ear. His breath is warm on Steve's ear, brushing over it like a wave that's barely there. It's so much and not enough all at the same time; overstimulating and underwhelming in a way he can't even think about trying to word. His cock is heavy now, leaking with anticipation as thick fingers stroke gently over its length. His hips cant forward in an attempt to follow when Billy's fingers move away, a pitched whine falling from his lips.

His head s _swimming_ , but he hears the other boy's hum, low and inquisitive. "What's wrong, pretty boy?" he purrs. Steve strains, seeks out Billy's touch and whimpers when he can't find it. "Use your words, darling." Steve struggles to find the right ones.

"You-you're too _far_ ," he whines out finally, because that is the most pressing matter at hand. He can't _see_ Billy, can't _feel_ him, and it's like hell. He wants to know the blonde is there still, by his side or hovering over him. He wants to be touched, not petted or stroked. He craves the solid weight of Billy's hand, his lips, his whole body.

But he gets nothing.

"Billy, please," he sobs. When did the tears start falling from his eyes?

Billy's fingers grasp the blindfold and _tugs_ , and moments later watery doe eyes are blinking up at ocean blues, soft and unreadable. Steve sniffles. "I want you."

"I'm _here_." Billy's lips are firm on his own, and something in the brunette calms and snaps at the same time. He keens and moans and whines as his boyfriend kisses his lips, his jaw, his neck. His teeth are harsh and sharp and it's so much, _too much_ , but he aches for it nonetheless and Billy is all too happy to give him what he wants.

His voice rumbles in Steve's ears like a rushing creek, praise and promises soothing his keyed-up nerves. "I've got you, Stevie, I promise. I'm gonna take such good care of you, sweet thing. Gonna make you feel real good, you want that?" Steve doesn't bother with coherent words, whining loud and needy in reply and reveling in the amused chuckled that gets him in reply.

Hands are on his skin again, solid and firm, pinching at rosy nipples and pawing at every inch he can reach. Steve's hips jerk again when one heavy hand wraps around his weeping cock. "Can I make you cum, Stevie?" Billy coos, and Steve's head rapidly nods his reply.

"God, fuck, _yes!_ " Billy laughs again, fond amusement glinting in his eyes. Steve writhes and bucks and shudders, his erection eagerly coming to life as Billy's palm glides up and down his shaft, aided by Steve's own precum. It doesn't take long to get him to topple over the edge. He comes with a shout, his spunk painting his abdomen and Billy's fist in heavy white ropes -

It's stronger than any orgasm he's had before.

And now, now he _really_ gets it. Billy's heightened his senses, underwhelmed him enough to make him desperate, and now he's caught in the throes of overstimulated bliss. Billy's hand doesn't let up after the orgasm ends either. Steve finds himself dancing on a fine line between pain and pleasure, and Billy draws it out as best he can.

When it becomes too much, the brunette attempts to pull away, hips shifting as far back into the mattress as he can manage. "B-Billy, fuck-"

The hand's gone and Billy crawls further onto the bed. His body settles between Steve's spread, quivering thighs, but before he can settle on the brunette he's stopped by the boy's soft whine again. "Wait, I-I wanna touch you." Steve tugs on the cuffs at his wrists. Billy's hands are there moments later, fumbling with the key, and as soon as Steve's hands are free he clutches onto Billy like his life depends on it. Billy kisses his tears away, presses his lips to every inch of his face.

"You did so well for me," he murmurs, "So good. I'm so proud of you, baby." Steve nuzzles him, Billy's weight grounding him in the moment.

"That was intense as all fuck," he breathes. Billy's grin is soft.

"Yeah? Was it okay?"

"Yeah." Steve closes his eyes for a moment. "It was more than okay." He opens his eyes again and finds those ocean eyes again, watching him fondly, and he leans up to kiss him again all soft and sweet. "We'll have to do it again." He pauses for a moment. "But not tonight. I don't think I could take it again." Billy laughs again.

"I wasn't plannin' on it tonight, sweetheart," he drawls. "I've got other things in mind." Steve's eyebrows creep up slightly.

"Other things?" he asks. Billy's grin grows into a devilish smirk.

"Yeah, baby. This night ain't over yet."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos are like chalupas and burritos, I need more of them.


	3. Take These Broken Wings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve Harrington has the most beautiful wings the world had ever seen, as far as Billy is concerned. And Billy is an expert in this sort of thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> one day i'll develop a regular posting pattern i swear -

Steve Harrington has the most beautiful wings the world had ever seen, as far as Billy is concerned. And Billy is an _expert_ in this sort of thing.

Because Billy Hargrove has the _second_ most beautiful pair of wings the world – they resemble the wings of a scarlet macaw, sort of. His scapulars and primaries are switched, though, the feathers closer to his back a deep azure while his primaries match the brilliant red of his marginal coverts. His secondaries are mostly that same blue as his softer scapulars, save for the line of emerald just under the gold plumes of his secondary coverts. It’s a sight, the bright swirl of colors, and as if he needs any reason more to brag about them, they’re _big_.

When he was little, his mother used to laugh as her poor baby would stumble over his long wings. She used to take him to the beach, let him feel the saltwater air in his feathers as he lifted his wings into the breeze. Just as she taught him to surf along the coast, she taught him to fly. Her wings were small for an adult, though not by much, but it didn’t affect her aerial skill one bit. Billy can still see how she sliced through the pale blue sky, impossible to miss with her swirl of colors just like the boy’s. And like Lilian Hargrove, Billy was once a spectacular flyer, charming plenty of girls, and a few guys, with his speed and agility with a promise that his wings weren’t the only thing capable of moving so _fast_.

“You know what they say about big wings,” he liked to say, a mischievous gleam in his winking eyes. He used the line on Steve exactly once and ended up spending the next five minutes torn between huffing and pouting at the other man, and genuinely worrying that five minutes of continued laughter _might_ end up sending the giggling goober to an early grave.

He didn’t actually get to wow the brunette with his agility and skill, however. Two years before he ever heard the word _Hawkins_ , a drunken Neil made sure his son would never put on such a gaudy show ever again. The bones in a wing were easy to break thanks to their porous build, and Billy was already known for being a high-flying daredevil; the doctor never thought twice when Neil brought the bruised teenager in with a clean break in his left ulnar, a messier break in his metacarpus, and a dislocated phalanx. The phalanx never set properly, and neither the ulnar. By the time Billy got to Indiana, his left wing was angled weird, and his speed and agility both were shot. Billy rarely flew in Indiana, but he didn’t have to take to the sky to earn his rank among the social elite.

Because Steve, his only source of competition for the top of the social chain, Steve’s wings were _small_.

In truth, they’re almost underdeveloped in size, and the first time Billy saw them he snorted, which led to Tommy poking fun at them for a solid ten minutes.

But then, in basketball practice, while Billy plastered himself right up against those brown feathers, the sun _just_ managed to catch on his primaries and Billy was stunned long enough for Steve’s shoulder to smack into his jaw and make him bite his tongue.

Because in the sunlight, Billy realized they were _golden_.

Or, not completely gold. The best comparison Billy can draw is to a golden eagle, with their varying shades of brown and the added golden flames coloring the tips of their wings. Steve’s feathers follow no actual pattern, a dark coffee secondary nestled right up against a more chestnut feather. And while plenty of them have golden tips, most of his feathers are speckled with golden moles, much like his skin. They’re almost impossible to spot unless he’s sunning, but Billy’s gotten good at spotting them now, actively looks for the variety of color there.

But Billy couldn’t tell him back then, so he instead took every opportunity to insult the stunning plumage while strutting around Hawkins High like a damn peacock, massive ruby wings drawing plenty of attention. He fluffed them up when chatting up the ladies, allowing them to pet the marginals and masking his uncomfortable grimace with an easy smile. Sometimes he liked to crowd into Harrington’s space, spreading his wings wide so the other couldn’t get by while he spat his taunts for the day. Steve’s eyes always stared at the deep red softness of his feathers, but he never dared touch. As much as he regrets it now, the shorter man tugged on speckled primaries more often than he should have, if only to see Steve’s wings flutter violently and tuck in closer to his body. The blonde liked to think he just enjoyed watching Harrington suffer. The little voice in his head liked to whisper that there was a far more dangerous reason for his teasing.

Either way, before Billy knew he loved Steve, he knew he loved those wings, even if he teased them mercilessly. They were graceful, a little messy, but if his eagle assumption was right, then Steve would be one hell of a sight up in the sky.

And if he wasn’t such a _dumbass_ , maybe he would have gotten a chance to see it while they were in school. But after shoving the taller guy around and beating the snot out of him an absolutely livid Max growled that he’d managed to snap Steve’s right radius.Steve had been unable to fly the rest of the school year.

The only time he ever saw Steve fly was just after the older boy graduated, outside of the mall – and he wasn’t really flying, more _hovering_ as his strange gaggle of kids demanded to see how many of them he could carry in the air. The answer was three, Billy learned.

Steve knew he could actually grab all _six_ , if he had to. Steve’s capable of a lot when under pressure.

His wings are an odd cross between his father’s golden eagle brown and gold, and his mother’s Italian sparrow rainbow of browns. They took after Misses Harrington’s smaller size, something his father often took pride in teasing the boy for, but as a child he zipped through the air like a hummingbird, never able to keep still very long. Even now, his wings often flutter and fuss, like they’re itching for flight.

They are, they _always_ are, but he can’t just fly off like he used to.

In spite of the teasing, Steve always loved his feathers. It was mostly because of his nonna, her nimble fingers preening and stroking his downy feathers for hours when he was a child. “These are special wings, _passeroto mio_. They are a treasure, do not ever forget that.” Steve promised he wouldn’t.

But Billy Hargrove and his gaudy personality and gaudier wings had him second-guessing himself. He fell in love quickly with the mesmerizing red and blue, and idly found himself wondering almost all the time if Billy could like his feathers half as much as he liked his. Most people didn’t, he knew, and he’d always been okay with that, but Billy was the first person he found himself wanting to see his wings for the treasure they were.

Judging from the way Billy tugged at them, he decided early that the answer to his burning question was a resounding _no_.

He liked Billy, except for when he’d grab his feathers and tug like that, like his father did sometimes when he wanted Steve to stop moving or when he was particularly _angry_. He really didn’t like Billy when he snapped a bone in one of his wings, but he figured at least that would cure him of his unbearable crush, and for a time it did. After that night at the Byers, Steve rarely thought about the boy – not that he had much of a _choice_ , because he suddenly found himself the apparent single mother to a hoard of unruly children and their unruly feathers. His days were occupied with chartering them around, buying them whatever they wanted, and, most importantly, preening their disastrous feathers every now and again.

Steve is maybe the best preener in the state of Indiana. He could do it in his sleep, his fingers deft and gentle and altogether _perfect_ for the job. By the end of a preening day, the Harrington mansion usually had a rainbow of colored feathers floating around, from the sleek black of Eleven’s crow feathers to the green and yellow of Dustin’s lovebird appendages. Even Nancy still came by, her speckled kestrel feathers mingling among the rest of the party’s. Sometimes, she asked if she could return the favor; Steve always tucked his messy wings in close before quietly rejecting the offer.

The entire time they dated, Nancy never touched Steve’s wings. In fact, no one that knew Steve could say they saw anyone touch the soft feathers. As good as he was at preening, his own wings were a disaster of crooked primaries and messy scapulars. He let Tommy preen him once, just after his nonna’s death, but it had felt so intensely intimate that he’d panicked and never let another person do it again. It was common knowledge that wings were a bit of an erogenous zone for many, but for Steve it was, and still is something bigger than that. For years, only his grandmother touched them, if anyone else was going to do it then he needed to feel as safe with them as he’d felt with her.

In the almost six years after her death, nobody qualified in his mind.

But that hadn’t mattered in July, when he and Robin got stuck trying to convince a bunch of Soviet spies that they only sold ice cream for a living. Both had quite a few feathers tortuously picked off, but that was far more bearable in Steve’s mind than the way the apparent general in charge of their interrogation stroked along his scapulars and the undersides of his secondaries, muttering in broken English about how he’d get this little songbird _singing_. It felt _wrong_ , he didn’t like the tone of the man’s voice, and he was positive he’d never felt more violated in his life, but It's a scenario he’s since pushed back into the box of other memories labeled _**‘DO NOT OPEN’**_ stored in the basement of his brain.

When assault and slow torture didn’t get anything out of him, the Soviets decided to break a few bones, pop a few sockets _just so_. Tore a few muscles in the process.

Robin couldn’t fly for months after.

Steve isn’t going to fly again, no matter how much his wings flutter in anticipation.

It breaks Billy’s heart sometimes, watching Steve watch the sky with a wistful expression. But between random fights with other boys, previous run-ins with the Upside Down, and a plethora of sports injuries, his muscles aren’t willing to sustain flight without worse injury. He can _try_ , in theory, but Steve isn’t willing to put himself through that sort of hope when the risk of failure is so large.

“I’ve done my share of flying anyway,” he told Billy one night, when their friendship was new and uncertain. “It sucks, but I’ll live, yeah?” At the time, Billy couldn’t fly either. Billy couldn’t do much, his body was still finishing the process of putting itself back together again after being possessed and almost destroyed by a monster from another dimension.

“Yeah,” he whispered in reply, trying to sound casual as he grabbed Steve’s hand and _squeezed_.

He was in the hospital for months, his wings cramped and confined to his bed as he re-learned how to talk, how to walk, how to _be Billy Hargrove_. He was pretty sure all his feathers would have just fallen off if not for Max in those difficult months.

Max, who owed him absolutely _nothing_ after the years of shit he’d put her through. He’d almost killed her friends on more than one occasion, yelled and fought and _hurt_ her at every turn, and yet she visited him dutifully every day, brought books for him to read and chatted to fill the silence for a little while. Her wings, sharp black with the bright freckles of a European starling, would flutter about anxiously whenever she came by, especially when she began trying to preen his dull wings.

He fought her every attempt until a particularly bad day when Billy was just too tired to fight. Even as he growled and hissed, she tucked herself behind him on that hospital bed and spent hours arranging and re-arranging the scarlets and blues and greens and yellows. Billy was surprised to find it wasn’t a terrible situation.

In fact, he loved it.

So he harassed Max into preening his wings every time she showed up, and eventually began preening her himself. It provided the pair a chance to start over, really, and even as he continued snarking and snapping at her after finally being released, there was a clear fondness each now held for the other. It was nice. Billy hadn’t had a true familial connection in a very long time, he’d missed it – not that he’d ever be telling Max that.

Besides, he didn’t need to be so lovey and affectionate on Max, she gets enough of it from Steve.

Max likes to say she’s the one responsible for their friendship, even if Dustin and Will try to contest her claim. Billy doesn’t particularly _care_ , because regardless of who started the idea, all six of the little gremlins came together to force the men into hanging out, and if they hadn’t then Billy never would have learned that Steve could make a huge dish of lasagna from scratch, _including_ the noodles. He never would have learned that Steve liked to play guitar, bouncing around like a basketball and narrowly avoiding catastrophic injury as he avoided desk edges and walls with his hips and wings, strumming and singing like he was the leader of some rock band. He never would have learned that Steve could crochet and knit like a pro, or that crocheting is actually a great way to channel his anger instead of beating the shit out of something.

Most importantly, he never would have learned that Steve Harrington is the kind of sap who admitted to having crushes by dancing them around the kitchen while singing about his feelings, his voice muffled against Billy’s curls as he pressed his face into the top of the shorter man’s head to hide his furious blushing.

This relationship, this apparent _romance_ is new and more fragile than anything Billy’s ever had, and he knows he’d go to the grave to protect it. They’ve hardly been together three months, but it’s been the best three months of his life. Steve’s a damn cat, always crawling into his lap to curl up under his coffee wings and sleep, or to just straddle his boyfriend’s lap and cover Billy’s entire face and neck with kisses for no reason. Steve’s affection is overwhelming, it’s everything he’s been missing. Billy can’t get enough of it.

Which is why they’re hiding in Steve’s room, the six-person party of rat children downstairs accompanied tonight by Steve’s apparent seventh child Erica.

“Actually,” Steve grinned when Billy commented on the extra kid, “I have eight. You just haven’t met Holly. You’d love her, trust me.”

“No, he wouldn’t,” Mike and Max countered almost completely in sync. Later they’ll learn they’re _wrong_ , but at the time Steve ended up nearly choking with the force of his giggles as Billy’s feathers puffed up while he glared at them.

They’re playing some game or another downstairs, or there’s a board game out on the table at least. From the sounds of it the only game they’re about to play is _‘can we have an all-out war without breaking anything in the expensive Harrington living room’_ which is, by far, the most anxiety-inducing game Billy’s ever seen. Steve hates it too, but he’s hardly paying attention, too busy breathing out pretty sighs while the blonde’s mouth nips and sucks and licks at every mole he can find on Steve’s pale skin – he sucks a light mark over a binary system of moles just on the underside of his boyfriend’s jaw and is pleasantly rewarded with a sound more _substantial_ than a sigh. Steve’s long fingers tangle in his hair, tug on blonde curls, and his lips whine Billy’s name in a half-hearted attempt to get the former lifeguard to stop.

Billy, the menace he is, continues on to a dark mole at the junction of Steve’s neck and shoulder, tongue sliding over the soft flesh before his teeth bite down. Steve hisses above him and tugs on his hair a little harder. Then his fingers are sliding down to his neck, playing with the hair on Billy’s nape, grasping his shoulders tight.

 _“Bill,”_ he groans. But then Steve’s tone changes into something more urgent and important. “Billy, hang, hang on.” Billy really, _really_ doesn’t want to, but he stops and lifts his head up so that he can meet Steve’s blown eyes.

“What’s up, pretty boy?” Steve takes a minute to find his words, brows furrowing before he spits it out.

“I, uh, I wanna – can I touch them? Your wings?”

Steve’s hands have expertly avoided Billy’s wings for the entirety of their friendship, and the first few months of their relationship. Billy can’t say he’s noticed before.

But now, right now as he blinks in the face of the other man’s wide-eyed, anticipating stare, he’s all too aware of it. Billy frowns.

“You don’t gotta ask, baby,” he insists. He can feel Steve’s hands fiddling with one another behind his neck.

“Well, yeah, _maybe_ , but you don’t like it when people touch them.” Steve sits back slightly, closer to Billy’s knees than his hips as he rushes his reasoning. “Like, I used to see people touching them all the time and you always got so stiff, and I get it, I don’t like when people touch mine without asking, and I don’t ever, _ever_ want to make you feel uncomfortable, Billabong.” His smile is sheepish, and Billy can’t _breathe_. “You sure it’s okay?”

Billy’s never been genuinely in love before this exact moment.

“Yeah. Yeah, Stevie, you can touch ‘em.” And _of course_ Steve’s fingers are light as the feathers he strokes, carefully admiring the silky feel of Billy’s marginals and smiling like he’s just done the most important thing in the world. Billy can’t stop staring at his stupid face.

“They’re so soft,” he whispers. And Billy wants to continue making out with the magnificent creature in his lap, wants to mark him as _his_ , but Steve’s got other ideas at the moment. He slides off of Billy’s thighs with practiced ease and crawls behind him. “Take off your shirt,” he orders softly, like it’s more of a polite request, but Billy doesn’t have to be looking to know Steve’s got that determined little smirk of his on his face, the kind of smirk that turns gentle requests into commands.

Billy’s happy to obey.

And he’s the last person in Steve’s little group of loved ones that learns about how talented Steve’s long, bony fingers are. He’s absolute putty in his boyfriend’s hands, quite literally purring as Steve moved through ruffled feathers with a practiced ease. And Billy didn’t _need_ to be preened, he never goes out in public unless his wings are already in pristine condition, but there’s a sort of intimacy that comes with this sort of attention, a closeness Billy’s never willingly allowed anyone but his mother and stepsister to have with him. And truly, Billy craves that with Steve. In the plaid-coated confines of Harrington’s room, on the soft covers of his bed, he feels like his entire heart is on display, his most intimate feelings there for Steve to see. This bed is where he’s cried and yelled and whispered his fears and frustrations, he’s broken down and come undone on this mattress. And now, he’s offering another show of his trust, another part of himself he’s struggled to protect open for Steve to see – and Steve understands the significance of it. He doesn’t rush, takes his time. His fingers move methodically through the already neat feathers.

And as if that isn’t enough, as if Steve hasn’t already given him the world, he opens his mouth and absolutely praises Billy’s plumage. He coos over the bright colors, murmurs about the soft feeling, tells him he _loves_ Billy’s wings, loves _Billy_. And Billy can do nothing more than struggle to stay sitting up, eyes half-closed in absolute _bliss_ as he’s loved on in the best kind of way. His primaries tremble as Steve’s fingertips brushed against the underside of his scapulars, and he hears Steve’s intrigued hum.

“What are you up to back there, huh?” Billy’s voice is much softer than it usually ever is, and he cranes his head back to try and look at his boyfriend. He’s met with a sweet-looking grin, all teeth and crinkled eyes.

His eyes are dangerously incapable of hiding his moods and emotions, and even in their half-shut state Billy sees the playful mischief sparking in their whiskey depths.

“Nothin’ at all, Bill, m’just preening my pretty parrot of a boyfriend.” But he’s definitely not just preening, not anymore, because there’s now way Steve has any reason to preen the tiny feathers on the underside of the base of his right wing. And the delicate movement of Steve’s finger isn’t enough to actually preen anything in the first place; he’s stroking, and it forces one shuddering sigh from Billy’s lips. It must be what Steve’s looking for, because the little menace hums a pleased note at the sound, and Billy can hear the smile in his voice.

“You are incredible, Billy Hargrove,” he states. “Remind me again how on earth I got you all to myself?” His soft hand palms against the small stretch of skin between his wings, and Billy’s brain _short-circuits_ for a moment. There’s Steve’s hum again, and Billy’s three seconds away from losing his entire mind. “Do you have any clue how stunning you are? You have any idea how much I fucking _love_ you?” He has the _audacity_ to scratch just so at his scapulars, and Billy’s halfway to turning around with every intention of showing Steve exactly how much he fucking loves _him_ , but he hears the warning thunder of footsteps before he can finish, and he’s scrambling to the other side of the bed as Dustin throws the door open, already halfway through a ramble about how they didn’t mean to break the glass this time.

“ – and I told him to stop but you know Mike can’t listen for shit, and – and – oh, gross!” The kid’s whole face twists up as he covers his face with both of his hands. Behind him, Max is absolutely _red_ and struggling to stifle her laughter, and Will desperately looks anywhere but the bed. “We’re right here, and you’re trying to _debauch_ our babysitter?” Billy’s jaw _drops_.

“Why are you little shitbrains blaming _me_?” he complains. “You don’t see Steve’s feather’s floating around here, do you?” Dustin somehow manages to look even _more_ mortified, and Steve desperately tries holding back the giggles violently shaking his shoulders, his wings fluttering.

“Stop traumatizing my kids, Bill,” he manages, scooting out of bed. “I’m gonna start charging you guys when you break my cups, that’s the second this month.” Steve’s move towards the door is stopped by a strong arm wrapping around his middle, and he yelps softly as he’s tugged back into bed.

“Nu-uh. You shits broke it, you shits clean it up. Your _debauched_ babysitter has some preening to do,” Billy grunts. Dustin squawks indignantly, and Max yanks on his arm before he can say anything.

“If we hear _anything_ , Dustin and I are coming back!” she warns as she tugs him out of the room, Will scurrying out ahead of them as fast as possible. The door closes with a bang, and Steve dissolves into a fit of laughter as they hear the redhead’s faint call to _use fucking protection_.

“You’ve scarred Dustin and Will for _life_ ,” he snorts. Billy can’t help his fond smile as he settles Steve on the bed, moving to straddle his boyfriend’s hips.

“They’ll live with it. I can’t believe you just sat there and let them blame me for that.” Steve’s still laughing, his head shaking with his amusement as his hands settle on Billy’s denim-clad thighs.

His eyes shine with playful mischief as he gazes up at the shorter man. “How am I supposed to preen from this angle, huh?”

Billy’s answering grin is downright _devious_. “You can preen me later, birdie. I’ve got a better activity in mind,” he replies.

“Oh, really?” Steve’s lips twist into a smirk. “Does this activity involve any _debauching_ , Hargrove?” He laughs as Billy swoops down to steal a heavy kiss from his smiling lips, large red wings obscuring them both from the rest of the world.

“You bet your sweet ass it does.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> spare comments, please? a few crumbs of kudos?

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos give me life!


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